The Consumed King
by DespiteGatsby
Summary: Even the most divine blood spoils over time. (AU)
1. Drunken Divinity

**Disclaimer: I do not own RE**

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 **A/N: *adds this to a pile of fics i can't even manage* hey this is a story about wesker suffering from severe ptsd. enjoyyy! (slight wesker/claire) ((so far))**

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Chapter 1: Drunken Divinity

Eyes of ember scanned over the various items on his desk, some stood out while others merged into the scene of the now chaotic mess he had been making lately. An almost empty bottle of whiskey accompanied by a previously downed crystal glass, sat next to a bottle of pills that did not belong to him. He couldn't remember what they were right now, only that they helped his pain. There were three coffee mugs, each empty and crusted with days old residue of the drink he once preferred over anything else and next to these mugs, there was a photograph. It was angled away from him, the faces of the individuals silently shunned his practice. He reached for the photograph as he poured the last bit of whiskey into his glass and dragged the frame across the desk towards him. Albert Wesker slugged the remainder of his drink, a drunken frown on his lips, lazily holding the gaze of his wife and child.

As he stared down at the picture, Wesker could feel an episode of guilt bubbling under his skin. The woman in the photograph was happy, proud, and relishing in that day's events. The young boy next to her smiled sheepishly, raising up the silver medal that slung around his neck. Wesker grinned lopsidedly, he could smell the whiskey on his own breath. His son was average, that whole period in his life was average. Not in a bad way, in fact, in a way that made him feel normal.

Human, even.

Claire Redfield turned him human. Even if it was just for those handful of years, she had torn down every wall, jumped over every mote, and conquered every demon living inside of Albert Wesker. A glorious feat for a woman so unlike him. She had spent years under his shadow, fighting off his corruption, spreading light where his darkness consumed, and taming a creature unlike any other being. Wesker would admit that at times, he could be a handful. His emotions were repressed, bottled, and compacted, but beckon to the right one and only dead men could tell that tale. After years of what he had seen, after what he'd been through, Wesker suffered severely from post traumatic stress disorder. It was the only thing he couldn't fight off, the only thing he couldn't hide from. It ate away at his brain and devoured his mental capacity. There were nights when random bloodshed wasn't enough to satiate the animal that curled against his brain. There were nights when his sheets would run damp sweat from the terrors in his sleep. His nightstand littered with little white tablets and bottles of expensive alcohol. Wesker wasn't one for pills and booze, but it seemed to be the only thing that could hold off the pain, even if it was momentarily. However lately, and Wesker himself would admit, he had begun to abuse these methods.

It had been three years since he and Claire had parted, they were never officially divorced, their marriage began to spiral into loose love, constant arguing, drugs and alcohol, and nights spent alone, apart from one another. Claire would beg him to seek help, to find a therapist, talk to someone who had no biased opinions on the kind of man he was. Someone who he could pour every little thought into and be confident that the information would never be revealed to anyone.

He refused.

Claire suggested they move, somewhere where they could start fresh, begin a healthy, new life in a different town.

He refused.

After months of guilt, anger, and downright depression, Wesker finally drove himself away from his family. Their son, Jake, spent days isolating himself from his parents due to their behavior towards each other. Wesker could hear him cry himself to sleep some nights.

It drove him mad.

The very idea of his actions destroying what he had built with Claire dug the sharpest stones into his gut, guilt curling in his stomach. It drove him mad because he could not reassure his own son that their marriage was going to survive. It drove him mad because the woman that he had fallen head over heels for had cut him off, telling him that she couldn't live like this anymore.

Wesker halfheartedly pondered about how many marriages ended in failure and tried to find some solace in these facts. He slouched in his chair some more, leaning forward to fold his arms down on the desk, Wesker planted his head upon them and sighed heavily, smelling the smoky tinge of his finished bottle of whiskey. There was a knock at the office door and Wesker grumbled at the noise.

"Al?" A man's voice called. The door swung open slowly and William entered. "Jesus it smells like a dive bar in here." The man strode over to the desk and peered down at his friend who was still slumped over. "Albert Wesker are you doing what I think you're doing?"

Wesker chuckled, a raspy and throaty sound that echoed through the dark room. "Sorry mom." He mocked.

"For the love of god, Albert you should be at home in bed, dead asleep." William spied the clock on the wall and shook his head, dirty blonde hair rustling in front of his eyes. "It's two in the morning"

"I don't sleep anymore." Wesker said blatantly. He had since sat up in his chair and pushed back his already unkempt hair. He looked as though he hadn't shaven in a few days, his hair slightly longer than usual, casually pushed back rather than its normally taught appearance. "I see… it when I close my eyes."

"You're relapsing." William commented dryly. "You told me you were doing better."

Wesker shrugged halfheartedly. "I was... But the stress builds up… the constant _gnaw_ and _thrash_ of these memories boil inside of me. I have violent ones of-" He stopped then, trailing off his thoughts. He sounded resentful but there was something in the way his words fluttered down, the tone shifting to the point where William was certain those words were meant for the memories of fear.

"Of what...?" William prompted.

"Of the mansion, mostly. I see everything all over again as if I'm really there... I can hear every creak of the boards under my boots, the sound that teeth make when they snap together like a rhythm... They gnash right in front of me and they're so hard to escape. I see the white and deathless eyes of the tyrant… I can feel it's claw _burrowed-_ " Wesker clamped a hand around the edge of his desk and his jaw locked tightly.

"There's so much pain…" He seethed through clenched teeth. "White hot _pain_."

There was anger present. There was powerlessness present. There was _hatred_ present.

Wesker breathed slowly. "I try to anchor myself right _here_..." His hands motioned to the room, eyes wandering over the details. "It's a goddamn nightmare that I can't wake up from…and it eats away at me."

"I will help you." William says. "But please, for the love of god, Albert you need to tell me this shit." Williams features danced in the sharp neon glimmer.

Wesker chuckled in the dark which turned into a throaty and frankly disturbing laughter. "Claire wanted me to get help." He says once his laughter settled. "She thought that pouring my damn heart out to a stranger would cure this." Wesker ran a hand over his face. "And she hated me by the end of it all. My son hated me…"

William sat in the chair opposite of his friend. "Claire does not hate you and Jacob does not hate you." He assured.

Wesker slammed his fist down on the desk, making William flinch and just slightly push back in his chair. The whiskey toppled over, a pill bottle rolling off onto the floor. Wesker had been exceedingly aggressive these past few years and although he had an aggressive reputation in the past, it had bloomed into something more over time due to his disorder. The room became deathly silent, Williams ears quivered with the sounds of rain and the street traffic below. Neon lights from the buildings burned into the blackness of the office. Pinks and greens and blues clashed against the shadow of Wesker's sharpened features. He was a blade in the dark.

"I'm just a fucking monster." He says. His voice is a _growl_ _._

XXXXX

The conference room was bright and invasive and did not help the throbbing ache behind his eyes. His sunglasses lessened the harshness of the fluorescent lights but that alone wasn't enough. His head swam with a migraine that bubbled in his brain, churning back and forth and spreading the dull pain throughout his head. Wesker palmed his temple as he heard, but not _listened_ , to words rattle out of each mouth. He sat at the head of a long table and on either side of him, sat numerous colleagues all whom of which were itching to be in Wesker's company for once in a blue moon. They discussed several different topics including company expansion, investors, money, and politics. All of which bored Wesker. He cared little for these things, he had people who handled these things for him so he wouldn't have to waste his time and yet, here he was. Subjected to a five hour meeting without the company of William, a grueling migraine, and a room full of individuals he'd rather be without.

Eventually, each conversation began to blend together, melding into a slur of words lost on his ears. Until a single name flared against Wesker's consciousness.

 _Ozwell_ _._

His ears began to ring harshly as if a gun had been fired right beside him and the worst aspects of a man Wesker _loathed_ to his very core, began to surface and rear their ugly heads. As soon as his breath hitched in his throat, tunnel vision threatened to embarrass him in front of some of his most affluent characters. Wesker stood up swiftly and his vision blurred from the headrush. The room fell silent as his colleagues looked on in confusion.

"Excuse me." Wesker said. His words were guttural and husky, his mask was quickly beginning to slip as he ushered himself out of the conference room and into the hall. He walked swiftly, employees of the building kept their distance as they watched Wesker storm down the hall, one hand pressed harshly against his forehead, fingers twining in his hair, the other hand in a tight fist. His eyes strained to focus and his breathing became labored. Visions of Spencer flashed behind his eyes and he could hear his frail voice ring like death bells in his ears.

 _You are nothing but a cog in my machine, son. A small and insignificant piece of a puzzle. You were created to serve me. Your mother did not want you. Your father wanted to kill you. They didn't love you._

 _I love you. You're my son. I created you._

Wesker had made it back to his office. The silence, however, was unwelcome. His thoughts, the _voices_ were much easier to hear. He tore his sunglasses from his face and they clattered onto the desk, broken. He turned the photograph down harshly, the glass shattering. He pilfered a new bottle of alcohol from a drawer and snapped open the top, pouring himself a shot, he knocked it back, it burned.

 _You were born to serve me! You were born to kneel at my will! You are nothing without my guidance and love!_

Wesker hurled the shot glass harder than a major league pitch and it left a crackling dent in the wall, the glass nearly turned to dust.

There were a few lights raps on the door.

Anger _boiled_ like no other. He didn't care for anyone other than his wife to walk through that door right now. And that wasn't happening any time soon.

Whoever knocked finally let themselves in. A bold move. However, it was Ada who proceeded.

"Someone told me you stormed out of your meeting for no reason." She mused, not paying much mind to the noticeable dent in the wall and Wesker's visible aggression.

"Are you my babysitter?" Wesker growled. His tone was clipped and sharp. He was not to be trifled with.

"Well I damn well might be." She says. "You've been acting like a fucking child lately you know that? You're out there throwing tantrums and barging out of meetings, scaring people half to death."

"Stop." He warns. "Stop right now…" Wesker slouched over the desk, his head hangs between his arms, hair that is usually so kept and neat, now tumbles in front of his unshaded, bursting eyes. Ada watched his hands and forearms tighten like a coil.

"You've become irresponsible and reckless." Ada says, her words are stern and forceful. "And frankly, it's becoming an issue for the whole damn lot of us."

"I don't pay you to scrutinize me." Wesker's voice is a low and warning tone. It changed the feel of the room in an instant. "I pay you to protect my assets."

"And _your_ ass." Ada added. "You pay me to make sure everything is ok. Well ya know what, Albert?"

"Do not call me _that_ _._ " He says, words quivering on the edge of snapping.

"This shit is not ok. _You_ are not ok." Ada approached his desk, a dangerous move for his current state. "You need to get your _shit_ together."

Wesker's fist hammered onto the desk and it cracked into several fragments, splinters of wood flying into the air.

Ada did not flinch. She wasn't scared anymore. She had seen Wesker in every form and hardly anything the man did surprised her. He used to, however, throw her through loops every damn day, making her life hell. But after nearly fifteen years in his service, to Ada, Wesker was nothing more than a damaged, drunken, and hateful creature. His post traumatic stress was harsh and not a day went by that he suffered. It was hard to watch him deteriorate, it was hard to watch him fall to his knees… Ada clenched her jaw… it was hard to watch him fight a losing battle. What once was a man who struck fear into the hearts of everyone he encountered, what once was a man whose reputation stretched so far, what once was a man who was _ruthless_ and yet _divine_ _,_ was now another helpless creature of habit. A slave to self-destructive behavior. Ada found it downright pathetic.

"Come on." She says. "Get back in there. Do your job."

Wesker took a swig from the bottle and then offered some to Ada. She shook her head. "Suit yourself."

XXXXX

Killing felt the same after a while.

Innocent.

Guilty.

Witness.

It didn't matter.

It all felt the same when he was wrist-deep in blood, hands clasped around organs. It all felt the same when he _tore_ into flesh. It all felt the same when he severed bone with little force. It all felt the same when the gun was a means to an end. Yet, those hands once placed lightly feathered touches on the skin of his lover. Those eyes once wandered over every detail of a body shimmering in moonlight. The gun was once issued to _protect._ He used to feel happiness and pride. He used to feel calm and peaceful and _loved._ But now there was guilt and anger and _hate._ There was paranoia and anxiety and depression. Beasts that gnawed among his brain, snarling, snapping, _howling_ for substance. Creatures that lurked and migrated from the darkest corners of his person. And Wesker kept feeding them what they needed. Every event, everything he'd ever done, and everyone he'd ever met, fell into ashes behind him. Their memories turned to cinder. He wanted to _forget_ and let them _die._ But he couldn't _die._

Spencer would not let him.

 _You will come back and you will suffer again. It is your fate, Albert. You'll just throw up the poison and shed off the burns. If you jump you'll just swim to the shore. You'll choke but your neck won't break. The bullet will push itself out of your skull and look like it never happened. And there will be no scars to prove you tried. The only scar you'll ever bear is the crescent on your belly. The scar that made you. The scar that turned you into a monster._

Wesker twined his fingers in his hair even harder, eyes screwed shut, trying to expel the voice rattling in his skull. His fingernails scraped his scalp and little stars danced behind his eyelids.

 _And why on earth would anyone love a monster like you? A beast. A tyrant. A fool. You are a shell of a man. You had so many opportunities and you destroyed all of them. You betrayed me and I loved you. I gave you everything I had so you could have everything you wanted... and you made me despise you. You made me regret ever allowing you a chance in my world. You are an ungrateful savage._

 _You will consume yourself. You will destroy everything you love and cherish. You will bleed. You will never know what it's like to live happily every again. You will continue to terrorize and murder and ravish and sabotage._

 _You will kill until you are killed._

 _You will kill until you are killed._

 _You will kill until you are killed..._

 **A/N: well i hope u all like suffering cause this is the main course. i hope u enjoy darkness and pain cause that's pretty much what this is centered on.**


	2. Atlas, Rise

Chapter 2: Atlas, Rise

" _Are you frightened?"_

" _No… I've seen death too many times to be a coward now."_

" _You've never seen death quite like me before."_

No man was a match for hers. He exceeded past where others had fallen, _clawed_ through years of inner turmoil, turned his passion into an empire. He could have anything any man could ever want, but eventually, he would drink it all away. His empire still stood and it was still great, but it would never make up for the estrangement, the life now spent alone, the _guilt_ that mercilessly drained his guts, spilling them in every which way. And no amount of money and alcohol and harm would reinstate his life long gone. She watched him turn, like a man plagued by moonlight, into a beast she resented and did not recognize. Days would drag on, filled with arguments, words slathered in hate, empty promises, tears… and he hated it when she cried. He knew those on her cheeks were _his_ fault and they rolled down her face because _he_ made them. She just wanted them to be happy and in love and unburdened, but he had too many demons for her to conquer. She did not want their son to feel neglected, it happened anyway. She did not want their marriage to fall apart, it did anyway. She did not want him to turn his back and run… he did anyway.

However, she could not forget him. They spent years together, imprinting a vibrant yet deep love for one another, something that was supposed to last a lifetime. And there was a time when they were both in love, when nights on the town's never ended, when there was music to dance to, when there was a child's laughter, when each would admire the other against soft and waning light. Now the towns were quiet, the music was dull and far away, laughter was silenced, soft and waning light was now bursting, sharp neon against sheer darkness. Now they were alone.

" _You know I cannot change. I will die the man I am."_

" _You cannot die."_

She remembers the first time they met, innocent curiosity. Creating excuses to be at the police station just to hear him say her name in his lavish, rich tone. She remembers their first date at the old diner she worked at and despite her assumptions, he did not mind. He said it had character. And from that night, they would evolve, tear skin of their own backs, and become the individuals they sought to become. Maybe with each other.

She remembers when she attended his funeral not two weeks later. She didn't know him that well but she figured she would show her respects and wonder about what could have been. She remembers hearing the truth and how her brothers words simmered in her ears. She felt betrayed, she felt like a pawn, she felt _stupid._ She felt stupid because there was affection, she knew there was, but was it all for show? Was it just to pull the wool over her eyes so he could get closer to his goals? Whatever his intentions were, they no longer mattered. He was gone.

" _Thanks for spending time with me tonight. I had a really great time."_

" _Me too, dearheart "_

She remembers the way his familiar voice sent the most menacing chill through her body. A voice she had not heard in years. A voice she should no longer be hearing. This man was a different man yet all the same. She strained under the weight of his boot, her bones shifted beneath his hand, her cries elicit a smirk from him. Hot tears sting her vision, he is not the same man. His intentions are cruel, he does not _feel_ anything for her and she wants to forget.

She remembers the first time they kiss and it is hungry, devouring, and heated. His hand twists in her hair, the other on the back of her neck, pressing her towards him even more. His eyes shimmer, pools of fire and cinder and she is terrified and mesmerized and still, she wants to forget.

She remembers living in secrecy, the world turns around them and she cannot catch up. She wonders how her life would change if she exposed herself, wonders what her brother would say. How disappointed and ashamed he would be. She wonders if she even matters to him or if he's just using her, but every night when she lies down in bed, she is reminded of the other side of this man. The side that ghosts the tips of his fingers down her arms and back and stomach, lulling her to sleep. The side of him that moans her name against the inside of her neck, making her flush red. The side of him that swore he would never hurt her again, his fingers strumming the scars on her body with his name on them.

" _Forgive me."_

" _I already have."_

She remembers the first time she watched him _bleed,_ knowing from then on that he was still a human being and he could still feel pain and love and be full of those feelings, let them radiate and glow. His blood was still red and warm, his flesh could still be mangled, his brain could still be damaged. And it was. She would remind herself to remind him that he was not a beast or a grotesque creature of burden. She never reminded him enough.

And so he was the beast.

XXXXX

Rain pelted the floor to ceiling windows, smearing the glow of the neon signs of the building next door. Wesker stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out onto the busy streets below his office, watching people hurry themselves out of the weather. His suit was finely pressed and tailored, his black tie accented richly with a vibrant red clasp, the shine on his shoes could have been brand new. His hair was neat and proper, his face trimmed and cleaned. He looked pristine.

Yet he was _stained_.

Under his cool, divine exterior, was a man who was desperate to escape his own life. He carried the _world_ on his shoulders, heaven and earth trembled at the very murmur of his name but he was shackled and raw and exhausted of this life. He wanted to leave, he wanted to fall to his knees and surrender to his worst fears, he wanted to crawl into bed and die in his sleep.

He was _tired_.

The rain made his mood drift back and forth. It beckoned to many memories and beckoned to many emotions, they churned in his brain and sweltered like a growing flame.

" _If you knew how this would end, why did you fall in love with me?"_

" _I don't regret this, if that's what you're hoping to hear… do you?"_

 _Her words freeze in his ears and he picks up the tiny pieces of this broken and desperate question. She is standing in the yard, it is late and cold and rain is beginning to fall, she is wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, trying to stay resilient against his blight._

" _No." He says. It hardly pierces the dark. "Not for a single second."_

" _Then why are we doing this again?"_

Claire's words are still so raw and sharp in his memory and they sting just as they did then. Why _were_ they doing it again and again? Why did they spend nights clawing each other to pieces, ripping and tearing into chords of the brain, trying to dig out wads of answers and comfort all the same. They spiraled so far down and only one of them managed to climb to safety. Wesker clenches his fists and his fingernails pry into his flesh, releasing, for just a moment, the pungent smell of blood.

 _KILL._

 _DO WHAT YOU WILL._

He palms his forehead and grits his teeth. Voices and sounds rattle in his headspace, threatening to manifest and multiply.

 _BLOOD._

 _DO WHAT YOU MUST._

His hand is against the glass, smearing red onto them and it melds with the shapelessness of the rain. The weight grows and it swells and he is thrust into a blackness, into the very back corners of his mind. Wesker sucks in a deep breath and the haze in his head begins to disperse and fizzle and each breath that follows assists him, but noises, voices, calamities, they begin to overtake him again. They render in his mind and he sees them vividly explode behind his tired eyes, it washes over his nerves like a violent swell of water and he can feel himself slipping into thoughtlessness and shapelessness…

 _You're stark-raving mad, aren't you…?_

 _You cannot survive without the thought of your hands around another's neck, squeezing the life from their souls and watching it drain from their eyes._

 _You're just a power-hungry fool!_

 _You cannot fathom a life without your cruelty forcing humans to their knees, bending them to your rule._

 _You're just a blood-starved beast… waiting for the night…_

 _You crave the bone wrapped in sinew, your hands are slick with gore and you relish the feeling of madness and a sickness and only the moon sees._

 _You are just a fallen and ashen god… never meant to rise from your cinders._

 _And yet, you did._

 _You are wicked and you are cruel… but my god, are you divine._

 _What am I to do when the Son never returned to fulfill his duties?_

His head swells and churns, he can feels his knees connect with the solid floor of his office, one hand latches onto his hair and his knuckles bear white as he squeezes his scalp, the other is planted firmly on the floor, straining keep his weight. Wesker can feel himself shifting into memories as though he's being forced through a dream, and he sees himself standing before a great door… one that he vividly remembers curtly pushing open one night in the European countryside…

 _The library is decadent, truly showing off the wealth of the old man before him, confined to his chair. The wooden clatter of the doors closing behind him, echoes deeply and a low quell of thunder follows after. The hall is dark and is only dimly illuminated by the moonlight and occasional flash of lightning. Wesker shrugs off his long coat, dripping with blood and rain, onto the marble floor._

" _I can honestly say, my boy, that I am not surprised to see you."_

" _You were expecting me?" Wesker questioned flatly._

" _More or less." Spencer rotated his chair to face his 'creation'. "You look well."_

" _You do not." He says._

" _Well, I am but a mortal." Spencer says, his voice is lost and gritty, unlike the commanding and stern voice a younger Wesker vividly recalls._

 _He finds him pathetic, a man who dedicated his life to the eternal cure, was wasting away in a secluded castle, surrounded by waves and wilderness that would surely swallow a man whole._

" _Concern for your health is not why I am here, Spencer."_

 _Spencer smiles weakly at him and it shoots a bizarre chill through his gut. "Of course it isn't. You're hear to know what you are. What you_ _ **really**_ _are." He settles in his chair, a bit too smugly for Wesker's liking. "They've all done it. And not surprisingly, you are the last."_

" _I know what I am." Wesker growls._

" _A_ _ **cog**_ _." Spencer's voice, for only a second in time, was once again the harsh and violent tone he once remembered resonating in his ears as a young man, fearing punishment._

 _Wesker bristles and he can feel his muscles react to flares of bubbling anger. He slowly begins to pace around his mentor, his eyes flashing behind his glasses. He smells the air and does not smell fear… Spencer had yet to discover that he was now prey._

" _We created a new breed of superior humans that were given life by the Progenitor Virus. The Wesker children were entrusted with endless potential." Spencer states as he moves restlessly in his chair, Wesker stops to gaze down at the sea rocks below, listening to the prattling old man._

" _And in the end, only one survived._ _ **You**_ _." That last word was dripping with venom and Wesker could feel it slice his ears. He resented him._

" _Are you saying I was manufactured?" Wesker asks bluntly._

" _I was to become a god, Albert!" The old man's voice rattled in the hall of ancient books and high ceilings. "And then you changed_ _ **everything**_ _with Raccoon City. You disobeyed me! Left me to hang! You destroyed my company, my wealth, my_ _ **power**_ _!" Spencer settles his bellowing and clears his throat. "Despite that setback, your creation still holds great significance. You can still uphold my legacy, Albert… my candle burns dimly as I face my own mortality… but you…"_

 _Spencer rises from his chair weakly and turns to face his Son. "You can still become divine."_

 _Wesker looks down upon the man that had taught him how to monopolize cruelty, to believe in power, and to strike down anyone who was too weak to face your hand. Wesker sneers, and right before he bares his teeth and steeps his fingers, right before he decides the right amount of force and speed, grey and weary eyes meet the shadowed red of the boy Spencer once praised for obedience._

" _Arrogant even until the end." Wesker is elbow deep into flesh and muscle and he can hear the twisted, wet snap of a body undone, he yanks Spencer's failing and limp body closer towards him and his lips are at his ear…_

" _The only one truly capable of_ _ **being**_ _a god deserves divinity. And you are neither." Wesker slowly pulls his arm from the gaping cavity in Spencer's abdomen, truly relishing in the lifeless white of the old man's eyes._

 _BLAME THE WORLD AND BLAME YOUR MAKER._

 _WISH THEM TO THE UNDERTAKER._

 _CROWN YOURSELF THE OTHER SAVIOR._

 _SO YOU CARRY ON._

 _DIE AS YOU SUFFER IN VAIN._

 _OWN ALL THE GRIEF AND THE PAIN._

 _DIE AS YOU HOLD UP THE SKIES._

 _ATLAS, RISE!_

 **A/N: go listen to atlas rise by metallica, kids.**


End file.
